


More Managable Monsters

by immortalitylost



Series: Made Monstrous [2]
Category: Lost Boys (Movies), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood Drinking, California, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Motorcycles, Surfing, Vacation, Vampires, because the world is full of monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22099264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/pseuds/immortalitylost
Summary: They’d done everything on their things-to-do-if-they-live-through-this-shit checklist from all those months ago. Everything but the last thing. The least likely thing. The most important. Find a town. Find a home. A place of their own.So when Steve’s motorcycle develops a mysterious sputter as they roll up to the city of Santa Carla; when it up and dies right in front of the large, loud, welcome sign, there’s a silent communication. A meeting of eyes. A tense waiting silence.And as they pass, on foot, Billy chuckles, points to the words sprayed large and red on the back of the sign.MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD“Yeah, Stevie,” Billy says, flicking his Zippo open and lighting the smoke he’s gonna be sharing with Steve in about two seconds whether he offers or not. “I’ve got a real good feeling about this one.”
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Made Monstrous [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590682
Comments: 23
Kudos: 63





	1. Monsters Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't planning on this at all and then I had an image and then there were ideas and then this happened. So here we are...

* * *

The parts of Palmdale Steve’s seen since they left the tiny airport have been dusty and hot and pretty shitty, honestly, and that actually pisses him off now that he thinks about it. He hates Palmdale for its shittiness. Because from the way Billy’s been throwing dark looks out the window since they’d left Palmdale’s stupid little airport, Steve can tell that _this_ is the fabled Cali of Billy’s memory. His hometown.

This.

Steve supposes it does have its charms. Provides its own brand of excitement. Like when a huge ugly scorpion skitters over his shoe as he waits in some _junkyard_ under the magnifying glass of this too-pale cloudless desert sky for some skinny tattooed no-teeth tweaker to bring out the motorcycles they’re supposed to rent.

Steve tenses. Watches the creepy thing climb down off his sneaker, its disgusting jointed leg tangled for a breathless moment in his shoelace, pulling, angry and tail twitching ominously before finally freeing itself and continuing on its terrifying way. Steve lets out his held breath. Looks up to find Billy smiling down at the bike he’s preparing to kickstart from the looks of it, as if Steve knows anything about the looks of it. But Steve’s right. The engine fires up with a roar and Billy’s smile only grows.

Okay, fine. Palmdale’s not so bad.

It’s just, Steve had thought sand when he’d pictured Cali, sure, but on a beach. He’d pictured packed bright suntan-smelling streets and loud neon-sweaty nightlife. Pictured waves. A soundtrack of waves. Whole days spent catching waves once he’d learned enough to keep from embarrassing himself.

Not _this_. Not Palmdale.

“Told you the bikes were good,” Billy says, coming up after cutting off the loud engine, a thin layer of dust already dulling his golden shine.

“Mmm, yup,” Steve says, not skimping on the sarcasm. “This is everything you advertised and more.”

And they’re supposed to be on vacation. They’re in a _junkyard_. Steve hates junkyards. Hadn’t known how much till five minutes ago.

Steve keeps an eye on the man who’d insisted they call him Tony Z, because safety first. Because the guy _is_ sketchy as fuck just like Billy had said when they’d talked about doing this months ago—Steve chucks the thought of months ago right outta the park because he’s not thinking about months ago. Not thinking about months ago is his way of dealing with months ago. But this guy’s a wackadoo, like Billy had said. And Billy follows Steve’s gaze and chuckles at Steve’s worry.

Bikes better be good. Coming all this way, to this little, stupid, hot dusty town to—

Billy’s distracted, eyes to the horizon.

“You know they make space shuttles and shit here?” he says.

And Billy’s proud of this stupid hot dusty town. And Steve _didn’t_ know. But Steve doesn’t say anything about it because call me Tony Z is headed back over their way holding something that might be a helmet and suddenly, way too soon for his tastes, it’s motorcycle time. And motorcycle time deserves all of his attention.

His pride rests at a level somewhere beneath the soles of his feet. It’s baggy still from his puffed-up high school days where even he’d been fooled into believing his better-than-you act. Sagging from all that ego leaking away too quickly once he’d popped his own bubble and woken up to the fact that his life was a superficial hell and he was punishing himself for shit he couldn’t even explain. And as he swings up awkwardly over the seat and tries not to fuck the bike up somehow by touching the wrong thing with his clumsy too-long legs or fumbling hands, he’s got jokes. Sure does. He’s got jokes for days.

He’s a funny guy.

Real lovable goofball that Steve Harrington. Always good for a laugh.

That night though, at the hotel in the good part of town—and thank god there’s a good part of town—he’s not feeling so funny anymore. Picks a fight with Billy on the off chance he’s able to find some new button to press; get the guy to take a swing and leave Steve with something to remember him by. Which is stupid.

And it doesn’t work. Billy’s locked down way too tight for that to work these days. That’s Billy’s way of dealing with months ago and all that entails. And it’s also maybe why Steve feels so lonely in the first place. Lonely here next to him.

Not that Steve blames the guy.

Billy won’t hit Steve cause Billy loves Steve. Loves. Billy’s own words. Doesn’t want to hurt Steve. Doesn’t want Steve to want Billy to hurt him, either, though he never says it. Never even hints. Because Steve gets the idea that it hurts Billy to hurt him. And Steve fucking hates that sometimes he needs it enough that he almost doesn’t care.

But that’s not true.

Steve doesn’t need that kind of thing anymore. He doesn’t. So it’s fine that Billy won’t. He’s past all that. Past it. Steve’s own words. Which means the bruise on his arm must have come from slipping in the shower—clumsy him. Which means he definitely doesn’t go in the bathroom now after failing to start a fight and stare at that stupid bruise, pet at it, slumped in the dry tub, hiding like he’s doing something dirty. He is—he may as well be masturbating in here—he knows it. Knows that Billy hadn’t given the bruise to him—he’d just slipped in the shower is all—so the bruise doesn’t _mean_ anything. It’s not a gift, just blood pooled under the skin—he’d been learning first aid. And it definitely shouldn’t do anything for him. For the loneliness in him.

But looking at it still has him leaving the bathroom feeling a little warmer. Less alone. It leaves him feeling less alone in a way that maybe Billy never will. That maybe nobody can.

Just snug up close like a friend living inside him. Piece of the person that gave it to him. Constant company. A friend that will always leave but one that he can always bring back if he’s persistent enough. Pushy enough. Can always count on. Always control.

Unconditionally.

And Billy’s at the hotel window with its fourth-floor— _top floor_ —view. And Steve thinks that stupid stuck-up thought like he’d ever even been in a building built higher than four floors. Like he’d ever been out of Hawkins. Thinks the thought like he’s still above it all. Better than. King Steve, top asshole on the pile.

The guy just won’t die.

Billy finds the bruise once they’re naked, obviously. Steve doesn’t bother to try and hide it. Billy listens to the shower story and hmm’s like he buys it but doesn’t and he kisses the purple-yellow spot before sucking it in and making it his own. Leaving his own mark to erase the one he hates. Hates but will never say it—before holding Steve down hard to the bed; holding Steve’s eyes hard too, to remind Steve of Billy’s presence, of the fact that Steve shouldn’t be lonely—of course he shouldn’t—and pulling Steve off with a hand so talented that Steve actually does forget what it is to be lonely while it’s on him. While they’re connected like this. Which is some kind of magic. And which is perfect. And Billy’s perfect.

Billy’s perfect and Steve’s a puzzle with no picture of a cute kitten or a forest scene, just a wash of pointless black, and he’s a puzzle missing half its pieces. So Steve’s just hoping for the day that Billy finally understands. Finally gives up and lets himself be happy. Because Steve’s not some engine Billy can fix. He’s a shitty puzzle.

He wants Billy to give up because he didn’t lie when he told Billy he loved him. He does. A lot. He wants him to be happy. See? Love.

Love for Billy is one of the only things Steve is sure to feel these days. Fear. Embarrassment. Love for Billy. Those are the emotional Crayolas he’s always got to work with for sure. The rest come and go. And when they go he fakes it.

And it’s not hard to feel love for the guy either, as Steve watches him pulling at his own dick now, not asking Steve to do it because Steve’s having a _day_ and Steve needs to be _taken care of_. Billy, flushed and almost angelic above him in the white fluorescence of the hotel sign shining in on them. Billy, putting on a show for Steve like he’s just being kinky, not letting Steve touch him. Billy, watching Steve watch him watch Steve.

And it _is_ kinky. And Steve loves it. And he loves Billy, you know?

He does.

Loves Billy enough to ride a motorcycle up the winding California coast like it’s his idea of a great vacation. Loves Billy even if the stupid stiff way Steve’s riding has him feeling like a poser, if his stupid anxiety makes the speed limit seem too high by half and every bump in the road seem like his inevitable end. Pictures his gruesome death played out at least ten different ways in the first five miles at fifty-five alone. Dreads the thought of freeway speeds.

But it’s fine. Billy’s happy. And honestly, Steve’s just glad to get away from Palmdale. Glad to see Billy brighten back to his usual cocky self as they pull farther away toward L.A. As they ride through the dark to beat rush hour, skirt the glittering sprawl in search of the Pacific Coast Highway, up so early only truckers share their road, their taillights trailing red lines through the dark ahead, guiding lights.

And somewhere along the line Steve loosens up, his muscles aching and slow to unclench—but they do. And he sits the bike with some small measure of confidence. And his pride crawls up somewhere close to the level of his knees, not looking quite so anemic anymore.

By the time they reach the coast, Steve knows that he’d been wrong. That _this_ is the fabled Cali of Billy’s memory. _This_ is home. He can see it in Billy’s eyes. The guy was made for the ocean.

Steve’s lost, and Billy’s a distraction, so happy that he’s weaving the lane playfully ahead of Steve and slowing to throw him beaming looks. Revving and speeding off. Showing off.

And they turn off the freeway. Follow the secret back roads and Billy never even stops to think about the way, turns corner after corner like he’s walking home from school or something.

They park along a small beach and Steve makes his slow way off the seat, throwing a heavy leg over to stand on unfamiliarly static ground. He feels the rumble in his crotch still and in his hands. Nerve endings in his fingers are confused and his hair feels too rough when he runs the left-over dust out of it; rids himself of helmet hair.

Billy refuses to wear a helmet because he’s a stupid macho moron that thinks he can’t die even though he knows he _can_ die. Even though he _has_ died. And Steve’s over here stuck with helmet hair because he’d felt like a toddler protesting and Billy’s stubborn. Way of the world.

“This is my beach,” Billy tells him like a secret.

And Steve stays quiet, cause Billy’s years away looking out over the sand; over the water. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Billy’s seeing his mom and him there. Steve knows it doesn’t take a genius because _he’s_ figured it out. And if _he’s_ figured it out….

Clear blue eyes finally find his. Clean gold curls catch this moisture-filtered sun like they should. And Billy grins, white teeth brighter with the first hint of a tan.

“Race you to the water.”

And Steve grins back because this is more like it.

“You’re on,” he says. Sees Billy about to trip him up so he shoves the guy off balance and takes off down the eerily empty beach, losing shoes and socks and everything but his underwear along the way. Billy streaks by without even those. He whoops as he churns through the shallows. Dives under and Steve dives to match.

The water’s thick. The salt on his lips tastes good when he surfaces. When a splash of it hits him fresh in the face and he wipes his eyes to find Billy wicked and unrepentant.

“I win, Stevie.” He moves in closer. “Whadda you think my prize should be?”

Steve's got a few ideas. He grins and beckons. Doesn't even check the shore for onlookers. He'd been waiting.

And the beach is fun. He's got no complaints. It’s not till a few days later, a few long beautiful terrifying days crawling up the coast, when Steve first sees a surfboard. They’re staying right on the beach, some fancy place that Billy groans at but Steve insists on and Billy secretly loves so Steve doesn’t know why he bothers making a fuss. I mean, come on.

Who’s the guy acting for?

“Let’s teach you how to pop up, Princess. Then we can have some real fun.”

And Billy clearly doesn’t understand the concept of fun. But eventually, Steve is able to hop up to standing on his board, both feet planted to Billy’s liking. When he’s got that mastered, he gets to play in the big boy waves. And when that happens, there’s one thing he learns right away; water hurts. Water hurts and it wants to kill you. And it’s good at it.

So Steve floats mostly, camped out in what Billy calls the line up, bobbing on the unbroken waves and holding his ribs because they still _hurt_ sometimes, even after months. He catches his breath because his lungs still don’t pull their weight sometimes from that time when they got bruised by a great big chunk of the mall that he’s definitely not thinking about as he floats and grits his teeth, trying to breathe quieter. Just like he’s not scanning the waves for shark fins. And by the time Billy paddles back up Steve’s finally caught his breath. He’s fine. Not even a bite taken out of him. Not even a stray thought of Hawkins. And so he takes the next wave, a small one because Billy’s not being an asshole about Steve’s inexperience. Is so proud of every goddamn thing Steve gets right. And that look Billy gives him like, yeah, this one’s mine, is all Steve needs to keep him going. Billy really wants to share this. Wants Steve to like it.

So after a few days of patient practice, Steve finds he does like it. And they take a couple days to just enjoy it. And it’s everything Steve could ask for from a vacation. Nice clean hotel, lots of sun, sound of the waves, and the right kind of sand underfoot. Good times. Not a scorpion in sight.

And Steve’s learning things. Changing things about himself. His life. Not caught in the same old useless loop, dreading the summer and the bullshit punishment job his dad expects him to get. Doesn’t feel the familiar intimidation as he straddles his bike to take off up the road. He’s a motorcyclist now, he guesses. A surfer now, too. His pride is at chest height. Chest height at least. And it’s fat and happy as a house cat. Not that Steve’s ever had a stupid cat to know how content they are or aren’t. It’s a metaphor, okay, what do you want from him?

For once—and this is the best bit—he _doesn’t_ think of that nightmare all those months ago and all those miles away instead of just _pretending_ not to. He doesn’t have the energy to feel lonely in the slow hotel-room evenings, when it’s only him and Billy and the background music of waves through the open windows. Doesn’t crave a fight. Miss his bruises. For once, his days are his own.

His nights, on the other hand—

Bolting up, he stares, gasping, disoriented, and for a moment the clothes piled up in the corner chair become his mother. She's sat there, prim and ankles crossed and smoking in his childhood room, staring at eight-year-old him in his little bed with the race car sheets and ashing on his expensive toys. And the gun glints in her hand. The tear-sheets glint on her cheeks. And he expects her to say “life is full of tough and frightening decisions, my Little Sir,” because that’s what she _had_ said, had always said. But she doesn’t, because she’s just a pile of clothes draped in shadow. And the song breaks through the panic. And it’s goddamn four o’clock again. He doesn’t even look at the clock. Why bother?

It’s always four. She’d always come at—

He just lets Billy's beach boys serenade lull him quiet with questions about what he’d be without Steve. God only knows. Billy’s voice blowing in his ear, ruffling his hair, rough with sleep and catching each note out of the air. Like always and like perfect and like the only thing that’s ever helped at all. Like ever.

“Monsters again?” Billy whispers, pausing in a pepper of kisses.

Steve nods. “Monsters again.”

And he isn’t even lying. Not technically. He never does when Billy asks.

And they move on up the road.

It’s never acknowledged, but every town and city and village on their way up that road is under evaluation. Every time they go to leave a place, there’s a pause, a look, a silent exchange of communication. Because they’d done everything on their things-to-do-if-they-live-through-this-shit checklist from all those months ago. Everything but the last thing. The least likely thing. The most important. Find a town. Find a home. A place of their own.

Be a family. And man, the word still gives Steve goosebumps. Gives him a stomach ache with want-that.

So when Steve’s bike develops a mysterious sputter as they roll up to the city of Santa Carla; when it up and dies right in front of the large, loud, welcome sign, there’s another silent communication. A meeting of eyes. A tense waiting silence.

Steve rolls his bike up behind the sign, hoping it won’t be stripped by the time they can get a shop to come get it. Looks up at Billy’s chuckle. Billy just points to the words sprayed large and red on the back of the sign.

MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD

“Yeah, Stevie,” Billy says, flicking his zippo open and lighting the smoke he’s gonna be sharing with Steve in about two seconds whether he offers or not. “I’ve got a real good feeling about this one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish


	2. Lost Little Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I apologize if you've witnessed the clusterfuck of tag swapping that happened with this story. Had to nail this one down a few times till I got something I liked enough to move along with. Super happy with it now. So, enjoy.

* * *

So, apparently, he’d been riding a haunted bike up the coast.

The bike had been intact and where he’d left it when the tow truck rolled up to fetch it. No graffiti or missing parts or sabotage at all, even though it had taken forever to get a guy to tow it.

Which was good.

By the time they’d gotten it to a mechanic though, the stupid thing started up no problem for the guy.

Which made Steve look like an idiot.

So now, the haunted bike was parked in the motel lot and Steve didn’t have to touch it till they left. And that’s good. And a couple days of surfing and bumper cars had managed to make him more or less forget his stupid bike.

So tonight, Steve’s only got one problem. You can’t roll up leather sleeves for shit.

The jacket Billy insisted he buy if he was getting anywhere near a bike had been hot as hell when they’d been back down around L. A. Uncomfortable and stiff. Not his style at all.

It still isn’t.

But now, the leather has molded to him with the heat. Is flexible enough to be comfortable. Those sleeves are still freaking irritating though, because Steve can’t kick the impulse to roll them up. Even in the always-somehow-perfect May breeze of upper California.

It’s not hot here. Not cold. It’s warm. And it makes Steve think of the hours spent in their warm bed. Healing, curled loosely together, Billy talking, urgent sometimes, in these long unbroken bursts about the shit he’d been through. Like he was trying to scrape rot from a wound or something. Sometimes in the quiet warm dark he’d lain there trying and failing to explain to Steve how easy something like warmth was to forget. Back before he had just stopped trying. Shut down about it all. Put up his tough-guy act. Started _taking care_ of Steve like Steve was—

Billy’d talked about how quickly things can fade.

And he hadn’t had to explain that to Steve—though Steve let him— because of course Steve already knew. He’d known for a long time.

Things fade so fast. People forget you so quickly.

He looks to Billy, who’s surveying the boardwalk, eyes on everything but Steve, those sharp blue eyes taking in and reflecting back the carnival lights, impossible to read when they won’t even flick Steve’s way.

And okay, so maybe Steve’s got one more problem besides his stupid sleeves. Maybe, when he grips the edge of Billy’s stiff jacket cuff—so close to holding hands—and tugs and that only gets him this annoyed look like, _what? Jesus, Stevie, needy much?_ it’s a problem. Maybe when Billy snaps his sleeve away leaving Steve’s fingers there to sting without it between them it’s a problem too.

Billy’s pissed at him and Steve isn’t quite sure why.

And can’t they just skip to the fighting? Get it all out there so they can make up already?

Can’t Billy stick to being jealous when it’s kind of cute?

Steve just wants a fun night. Carefree, you know?

But he won’t get it, he’s realizing. Of course not. He doesn’t get to have fun. Fun is for other people. Fun gets people killed. Gets hearts broken. Steve knows that too. Should’ve given up on fun by now.

Should’ve learned his lesson.

Except tonight, Steve’s in tight jeans—though that’s not exactly unusual. And he’s got on his motorcycle boots instead of his preferred white sneakers—more unusual. A cigarette is resting behind his ear—his only one because Billy has the pack and Steve’s not about to start shit over a _cigarette_. He’s in that annoying brown leather jacket that he looks damn good in too, he knows, and his hair—well, let’s face it, his hair always looks good. Great even. His best feature, that hair.

Which is kind of sad when he thinks about it.

Which he doesn’t.

All in all, Steve looks like something he’s not tonight. And looking like something he’s not kinda has him _feeling_ like something he’s not. Has him feeling restless and maybe not opposed to a little bit of anarchy. A little bit of fun.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Of course, that reckless thought could be coming from the three straight blocks of weed smoke they’d walked through on their way to the boardwalk, just now. The contact buzz might be what’s left him all don’t-give-a-shit antsy. Possible. Or maybe it’s just Santa Carla getting to him. Just its vibe seeping in and making him feel, well, alive.

It’s so _alive_ here.

Which is ironic, given the welcome sign.

And that has him smiling. Has him smiling as he studies Billy and when Billy finally _finally_ looks his way, that smile seems to melt the chip right off the guy’s shoulder. Has Billy almost grabbing Steve’s hand like Steve had wanted—though of course they can’t right now, not here—elbowing Steve affectionately in the arm once he thinks better of it to hide his awkward jerk away. Has Billy cocking his head and slipping into the crowd with a lopsided grin, knowing that Steve will follow him.

Steve doesn’t disappoint. And Steve’s staring, just taking it all in as he goes. He’s scanning the crowd of young punk goth preppie square rich poor dirty clean faces as he and Billy slip through the mass of bodies and all of those faces are people like Steve has never seen them before. More color and variety than he’s ever had access to. Just people, living their lives and unaware of his attention. Of who he is or—Jesus even worse—who his dad is. Just ignoring him. All of them.

All but one.

He stops. Billy senses his absence and stops too, turns to find Steve. Follows Steve’s gaze. Gets pissed.

Cause she’s looking at Steve again.

“Your girlfriend’s looking at you again.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says.

 _I’m sorry, okay_? he thinks. But what the hell does he have to be sorry about?

“Not like I can stop her,” he adds.

She’s looking, alright. Staring. And Steve definitely notices. And he wishes she’d cut it the hell out. Her big blue eyes are ringed in smudged black and her ashy brown hair is wild in the wind and he can tell all this cause she’s still staring, like she knows they know she’s staring and she doesn’t even care. And why does she look so sad? What the hell’s up with that?

“Look,” Billy says. “She’s sad.” Says it so Steve knows he definitely isn’t feeling any sympathy for her. “Why don’t you go cheer her up, huh Stevie?”

“Oh, fuck you, Man.”

“Nah,” Billy says, monotone, and he pulls out a smoke. One of the many he has to choose from. “Think I’ll pass,” he says, lighting it. “Been there, you know? Done that. But she looks like she’s game.”

And she does. But Steve’s _not_ game and Billy knows he’s not, right? I mean he’s definitely got to know by now, right? Except Steve guesses he doesn’t know, and Steve doesn’t know how the fuck to begin convincing the guy of something so obvious.

Can’t they just fight so they can get to the making up?

And it doesn’t matter anyway because when Steve turns to try and state the obvious, mouth open, Billy’s gone. Billy’s gone, and Steve can’t even go back to the hotel room and sulk about this _stupid_ hissy fit of Billy’s—this not-even-a-fight—because Billy has the only key and the stupid motel office is closed. Which leaves him—

Fucked. He’s just fucked.

“Fuck me.”

He rubs at his eyes, pushing them deeper into his skull. Dancing lights and pain both nicely distracting.

“Once upon a time I might’ve charged you for that kind of thing,” a girl says in his ear, her voice this smoke-roughened breathy sigh that _doesn’t_ sound a little bit sex-wrecked and _doesn’t_ do anything to Steve’s dick at all in the most infuriating way, and Steve turns and it’s _her_ because of course it’s her, and she’s stealing his only cigarette from behind his ear and smiling but still sad, you can just see it. And now she’s lighting his last cigarette. And he’s probably glaring at her. He checks. Yeah, he’s definitely glaring. Because who wouldn’t be, right?

What’s her problem, anyway?

“For you, though, Sweetheart,” she goes on, not fazed by his glare like she should be, “I’d’ve probably made an exception. You’re a real cutie, aren’t you?”

“Listen,” he says louder than he means to because he. Is definitely not. A Cutie. “Not interested, okay? Have a nice night.”

And then of course when he turns to go find Billy and just get the fight over with already, force it if he has to, she’s there like she’d teleported. Was behind. Now in front. Snap.

Look at the fucking magician over here. We’ve got tricks.

And Steve thinks he’s supposed to be impressed but really, honestly, he’s just annoyed at this point. This is a jacket sleeves not rolling up level thing.

“Oh great,” he says. “This is great. So, what kind of supposed-to-be-impossible monster are _you_ then?” His voice comes out deadpan. He doesn’t bother beating around the bush when she so obviously wants him to ask with all this Penn and Teller shit. She’s an easy read. And he knows girls, alright—knows normal girls, not the kind he hangs with these days. If all that time getting in girls’ panties like he was training for an Olympic event left him with anything, it was a sense for these things. What those normal kinds of girls want from a guy like him. And despite this girl’s freaky speed, he has a feeling like he’s met her before a few dozen times on his rounds of Hawkins.

She keeps staring with sad eyes. Snaps her bubblegum. Twirls her hair.

Yup. Just like coming home.

“I’m a Gemini,” She drawls. Blows his smoke in his face. “Listen, my friends are having a party. Wanna come?”

“No,” Steve says, because is this girl serious? “Thank you.” Says it like fuck you. Hope she gets the message. She doesn’t seem very bright.

“Fine,” she pouts. “Your loss.”

Her eyes scan the crowd like she’s already bored of him but it’s all a show. He can tell. And she throws him a quick look before throwing him a wink. And for just a second, he’s not so sure she’s a normal girl at all.

“Catch you later, Cutie.”

And she’s gone. Penn and Teller gone. Poof.

And after that he just wanders. What the hell else is he supposed to do?

Takes the free beers that keep being offered off bonfire after bonfire up and down the beach. Stays and listens to their stories. Shares their warmth. Shares their weed. Tries to fill the where-the-fuck-is-Billy-right-now loneliness. Tries to drink away the worry.

After a while it kind of works.

After a while he finds himself kind of fading in and out and he finds himself somewhere new each time it happens. With someone new. Sharing their stories. Their beer. Their weed.

He’s calling some guy an asshole punk bitch just to taste the taste of blood again, maybe wash down the beer, you know? Just to get the guy to push him to the sand and punch him and punch him till the guy’s friends are pulling him off and Steve feels properly punished for whatever the fuck he’s done to piss Billy off and drive him away. And it’s nothing close to kinky now. And whatever bruises he gets from _this_ won’t be a comfort as they heal, be a balm to loneliness, but penance due. Payment. He’s got to pay for whatever—

Remembers Jonathan. Remembers Nancy and what he’d had to pay for with her.

Thinks of Billy out there _somewhere_ and he’s sorry sorry sorry and he—

Why does he keep fucking doing this? What’s wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with him?

He’s giggling with some group of girls as they each try to win a giant stuffed bear and can’t hit a single cup to knock the pyramid down, falling over each other with the force of their laughter, one falling into him, her giggles fizzing into his chest like Billy’s sometimes do when he doesn’t want Steve seeing how happy he is, when he’s embarrassed. Giggles popping against him like champagne bubbles and making him smile. One more try, man. One more turn. Set us up.

A topless woman is in front of him, her glistening skin the exact same color as the firelight she’s lit by. A topless woman with perfect small breasts and hard dark nipples brushed by glossy-straight hair that’s blacker than the sky. She sticks out her tongue at him. Smiles with white teeth sharp like Billy’s teeth when he copies her; sticks his tongue out to match. She places a bitter pill delicately on its tip. And he swallows it. Licks his lips. And she kisses his cheek. Melts back into the dark outside the fire glow, gone like she’d never been real at all.

He sits on a bench and watches the rides go—glow. Watches the swoop and glitter of the boardwalk. The people blurring by. Screams in the distance. Popcorn sugar and smoke in his nose. Tilts his head back and the sky is black. The stars are gone. And a hand runs through his hair. His eyes close and he tastes Billy’s tongue on his tongue.

But when he opens his eyes again, they land on a head of brown frizzy hair sinking down under his hand as lips nip at his jumping abdomen and soft hands work at his jean button and his heart thuds once with so much force that it locks him behind his eyes. Traps him in the moment. And what the fuck is going on? What is he doing? And he’s got this random girl that’s sinking down trying to give him a blowjob in this dark dirty alley and he knocks her away with the force of his fear, in his adrenaline-spiked need to bolt. To go. Now. _Now_!

What the fuck is wrong with him?

And she’s “hey!” and he’s “I’m sorry I’m so sorry” like always as he leaves her, and he is, but he’s running and he’s too far away already for her to have heard.

And he doesn’t stop.

Keeps moving till he smacks into some asshole cause he’s not looking where he’s running, just running, and when the asshole turns Steve just punches him and waits. Fucked up again, why can’t he just— And when he’s payed enough for his latest sin that he can live with himself again, he walks off along the blackest part of the shore, boots flooded in salty water. Wishes for a cigarette with Billy’s lips still fresh on the filter. Falls down in the sand. Looks up at the sky. Still can’t find the stars.

The black and white clouds overhead seem to sway with the waves that lap his calves. Pulled this way and that. Tossed.

Where is Billy now? Where is he?

His breaths seem to sync up with the waves too. Soon, the whole world is pulsing to their beat. His blood. His thoughts. Pounded away on the shore one after another. Boom boom boom boom boom.

“Lost your way, Little Lamb?”

His head is suddenly pillowed on a soft thigh. Small gentle fingers card through his hair. Boom boom boom. And the smoke in that voice that had broken through the waves means it’s her. And of course it’s her. And she’d started this. Started all of this.

“All I did was look, Cutie.”

Had he spoken?

“Can’t fault a girl for looking at pretty things.”

And the fingers in his hair are soft and nice but they’re not the _right_ fingers. And he _is_ lost. And where is Billy? Is Billy lost, too? Where is Billy now?

Why isn’t he _here_?

Tears make the clouds swim in the sky above. More water. Too much water. And the waves pound and pound and pound. Boom.

“I’ll take you to him if you want,” that smoke and mirrors voice whispers above the beat of waves. Hand brushes back through his hair.

“My poor, sad, lost little lamb,” she says, finger skating down over the bridge of his nose now. “Time to bring you home, safe and sound.”

And when she picks him up to carry him, he doesn’t even question. Falls asleep as he’s rocked by her step. Dreams of Billy. Uneasy dreams.

And he’s woken too soon.

“Wake up, Cutie,” the girl says in his ear. He jumps awake. “You’re walking from here. Don’t want to scare your pretty friend away, now do we?”

His eyes open on a cliff’s edge, and he’s somehow already standing. He falls back to grasp at the wall, heart pounding again. The girl smiles, calmly. Waits. Watches.

Slowly, Steve takes in the wide path. The start of a staircase going down into the dark. The darker black outline of a cave entrance below. Waves knock louder now, pounding on rock and not soft sand. Boom. Boom.

Where the hell is he? He looks to the girl, uneasy, but she’s not a normal girl at all it turns out and so he can’t read her for shit. And he’s probably going to die. Yup. The thought comes from somewhere near the back of his honey-slow drugged out mind. And as the thought bounces slowly around, sets off tardy alarms, he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Gonna keep him waiting, Sugar?”

Steve’s stomach drops as he clutches his way down the stairs. Walks into the dark entrance of the _cave_ —you’re walking into a _cave_ you moron, run away! Toward the firelight glow that becomes visible just past the entrance.

And it’s warm inside and there’s music. And there’s Billy. Billy. It’s not a trap. He’s not going to die.

And thank fuck for that because for a second there—

Steve’s just standing in the entrance of the cave, mouth open and watching Billy’s profile. Should say something. Anything. But Billy’s name is stuck in his throat. Choking him.

Because Steve fucked up. Chased Billy away. That hasn’t changed. He’d done that. He’d fucked up again somehow and Billy—

“Steve.” Billy’s head had popped up at some noise and his eyes had caught Steve’s and he’s up now and stalking over. Stalking over and he’s angry. Fists curled at his sides.

But he slows as he moves closer and his fists drop loose. His eyes are searching. Categorizing every bruise.

And of course he won’t understand the fucking bruises. That it’s not— That it’s completely different. And he’s gonna think it’s so much worse now. And so Steve’s fucked up again already, good job, Pal. Billy’s gonna think— And he’s gonna—

Billy shoves him into the rough cave wall. Holds him there hard, hand burning over Steve’s sensitive ribs. Billy’s eyes hold him there too, fingers dug deep into Steve’s jaw forcing him to look at Billy when all he wants to do is hide. But it works. Steve looks. And Billy always knows how to bring Steve back down to earth when he drifts, scatters right out of his head. How to pull Steve back in by the eyes. Trap him there. Hold Steve down under a big hot palm and keep him grounded. Keep him in the moment. In the moment and with Billy.

Cause Steve’s always wandering off. Getting lost. This is nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says. And what?

“Shut up,” Steve says right back, shaking Billy’s grip from his jaw but keeping up the eye contact. “ _I’m_ sorry.”

Billy shakes his head. Pushes Steve deeper into the wall.

Perfect. Perfect.

“Don’t _ever_ run off on me like that again, Stevie.”

“I—” Steve’s too messed up for this. “ _You_ left _me_ , Asshole.”

“Idiot,” Billy says. The big hot palm lets up and Steve’s ribs still ache once it’s gone. Miss the weight of that hand holding him together. “ _I_ come _back_.”

Huh. Got him there.

“So… you came back and—”

“You were gone. And I looked for fucking hours.” His jaw hardens at the memory. “Found that _girl_ with these guys and she said she’d seen you near here.”

Had he been? Near here? Can’t say. Doesn’t even know where _here_ is.

So he just says sorry again. Cause he is. Sorry and drunk and a little high and still feeling whatever pill he’d swallowed like the dumbass that he is. And he just wants to hug Billy and explain the bruises and take away that fucking hurt he can see in those eyes, buried in there under all that protect-you bullshit Billy thinks he needs to be worthy of Steve’s affection. Like he needs to be useful or something or he’s useless. That tough-guy bullshit that makes Steve forget sometimes how easy Billy is to break. How careful Steve has to be not to.

He’s so fucking selfish.

“I’m sorry, Billy.” He says it again, whispers it, hand on Billy’s chest, light, throat burning, wishing they were alone.

“You two are like, pretty intense, huh?” a lanky long-haired blonde says. Steve looks over Billy’s shoulder in time to see the guy hop down off the lip of a huge fountain in the center of the room and throw him some finger guns and a wink.

“Oh, they’re positively adorable,” a guy sporting a platinum blonde Billy-Idol-wannabe haircut over a black trench coat says, smirking. He’s sitting a wheelchair like it’s a fucking throne or something. All legs crossed and cocky.

Billy and Steve exchange a look. Get a load of this asshole.

“But the question remains—” the guy goes on, too pale in the white illumination filtering down from somewhere near the ceiling. Moonlight maybe. Pale skin. Pale eyes. Too pale. “—will they stay to celebrate with us?”

“Stay,” the lanky blonde chants, pumping a fist.

“Stay.” The others take it up.

“Stay stay stay stay stay.”

“What do you say?” the head asshole asks, accepting the slinking embrace that the girl—Steve’s tormentor, Steve’s rescuer—comes up and entwines him in.

And it’s ridiculous. And it may just be the drugs in Steve’s system but these guys seem fun. Steve laughs. And he looks to Billy who looks totally against the idea until he studies Steve’s face for a bit. And Steve may be playing up the puppy eyes just a little. But not _too_ much.

He just wants to have some fun tonight like he’d planned.

Is that selfish, too?

“Fucking fine,” Billy says, throwing Steve a gonna-kill-you-later look and brandishing a mock-threatening fist before throwing up his hands in exasperated defeat. “We’ll stay.”

There’s a general whoop as the lanky blonde dials the music up and joins the other two chanters, small and large, jumping around the room excitedly.

Billy watches. Frowns.

“What’ve you got to drink in this shithole, anyway?”

“Marco,” the head asshole says, snapping his fingers. The small guy with the curls slides up. Leans in. Silent. “Show the man what we’ve got to drink in this shithole.”

Marco smiles. He nods and disappears.

And Steve just wants a little fun. Just wants to be a stupid teenager for a little while. For one night.

Is that so much to ask?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist by Chapter
> 
> 1\. Ocean eyes – Billie Eilish  
> 2\. The Fun Machine Took a Shit & Died – Queens of the Stone Age


End file.
